The Gallant (21 page)

We have to help him to escape, bring him here to Hobart, and then -” He smiled, suddenly eager and full of confidence. “Once here, we have made plans to ship him to New Zealand. Martin Cash is going there-there’s a vessel ready and waiting.”

“I see.” Johnny was silent, his thoughts racing through his head, now accepting what Patrick had said, now rejecting it.

Kitty’s fingers closed about his in a convulsive clasp. “Will you deliver our letter, Johnny?” she begged him. “Please, if you care anything for me, will you try to make sure that Michael receives it? It-it will be carefully worded. If it should fall into the wrong hands, no one will be wiser. I-I know it’s a great deal to ask of you, but I-oh, Johnny, I am

asking! Will you?”

Suddenly bereft of words, Johnny hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly inclined his head.

And, as she had on the deck of the Galah,

Kitty pressed close to him, her soft lips brushing his cheek in gratitude.

Talk in the messroom, as the men of the chain gangs ate their evening meal, was of the coming fight, with opinion sharply divided as to the chances of the two contestants.

“Train claims “e went eighteen rounds with Jim Kelly,” one of the lumberyard gang asserted. “For a purse o” an “undred guineas at Baliarat.”

“Well, I reckon ‘e’s big enough,” another said, cramming his mouth full of the unappetizing potato broth in front of him. “An ‘ole lot bigger’n Michael. Taller too, near as I could judge.” He waved his spoon at Michael.

“What do you think of ‘im, Michael?

Can

you lick ‘im?”

Michael affected not to hear the question. He had heard of the Kelly brothers-James, Thomas, and Charles-famous for their pugilistic prowess and, at various times, champions of Victoria at their different weights, commanding big purses in the goldfields as well as in Melbourne. And, even if he had heard nothing of them, the men about him were eager to fill any gaps in his knowledge.

“Jim Kelly was the one who fought Jonathan Smith at Fiery Creek for six an” a “alf hours an” drew wiv’ “im.”

“Aye, that’s a fact. An” Charlie-“e was the youngest of ‘em com’e fought Black Perry once an” licked “im. But Perry was past it then-drinkin” “imself to death, ‘e was.

‘Cause no one couldn’t match ‘im, after ‘e beat Georgie Hough.”

“I know who Delaney will be puttin” his money on tonight,”

William Stuart Long

Will Haines observed spitefully. “An’ it won’t be Big Michael this time, that’s for sure!”

He grinned at the man beside him, the thin little scarecrow who was his constant companion.

“Eh, Josh?”

Thus encouraged, Joshua Simmons added his taunt.

“Naw-an’ I’d not risk a ha’penny bettin’

agin’ a feller that stood up to one o’ them Kelly boys, Will,” he declared waspishly. “That’s if I “ad a ha’penny ter wager, which I don’t. You won’t be champion much longer,

Mister

Wexford-Train’ll murder you! An” not afore time, in my “umble opinion. Lose ter ‘im an”

Delaney’ll send you back to the bleedin’ quarry gang.”

That was in the cards, Michael knew.

Superintendent Delaney liked winners. He went on eating, refusing to be drawn or provoked by Simmons’s spite, and one of his own gang, Jemmy Roberts, came to his defense.

“Train may be all you sods say he is, but there’s one thing you’ve forgotten-and it’ll weigh in Michael’s favor.”

“And what’s that, Jemmy?” Haines demanded with a sneer. “You reckon “e’s lost weight, on account o” spendin’ seven days in solitary?”

“No, that ain’t it,” Roberts countered.

“But Train ain’t never fought in leg-irons, has “e? Michael has.”

That was true, Michael thought, his flagging spirits lifting. By some odd quirk in his reasoning, Superintendent Delaney-although, by permitting fights to take place, he was breaking the rules-had always insisted that men sentenced to work in chains must also fight in them, because he had no authority to order the removal of their fetters. As a result, the fights were slugging matches, since evasive footwork was all but impossible, and retreat, impeded by the leg-irons, was fraught with danger of a stumble or, worse still, a fall.

Someone, no doubt, had told Toby Train this, and … Michael smiled, as he mopped up the dregs of his soup. That would explain the big man’s apprehension and his uncertainty, despite his formidable record as a prizefighter. To defeat him would be not only possible but likely, if he were given no time to accustom himself to the restricted movement, which was all the chains allowed.

Evidently coming to the same conclusion, Jemmy Roberts slid along the bench to Michael’s side.

“Go in fighting, Big Michael,” he advised in a hoarse whisper. “He’ll be used

to long fights an” skillful punchin’, like as not, so don’t give “im time ter settle. Hit ‘im with all you’ve got, right from the start, an” you’ll have the big sod beat!”

“Yes,” Michael agreed. “That’s what I’ll aim to do, Jem.”

The meal break ended and with it the freedom to talk.

The men from both messrooms shuffled out, to form up in the yard and occupy three sides of the square, which had been paced out by two of the overseers, who were now engaged in placing kerosene lamps in position at its extremities. A work party brought out chairs for the superintendent and his officers and stools for the two contestants and the timekeeper, setting each meticulously in place. Despite the ban on talking, a low hum of voices rose from the convicts’ ranks, to which officialdom turned a deaf ear, aware that to attempt to silence it would be futile. The soldiers detailed for guard duty marched up and were stood at ease; their off-duty comrades sauntered over, in twos and threes, leather stocks loosened and headgear discarded, to cluster about the table at which three of Delaney’s clerks were recording wagers.

To Michael, the scene was all too

familiar; apart from a glance through the messroom window to ascertain what stage the preparations had reached, he did not trouble to observe it. He had fought a score of times and won more often than not, but he gained no profit from the wagers and, in consequence, took little interest in the procedure, beyond an indifferent inquiry as to the odds being offered.

A sub-overseer named Wittington-like old John Staveley a pleasant-enough fellow when no senior officers were present-had been chosen to act as one of his seconds, and Jemmy Roberts was also fulfilling the same role. Michael submitted to their ministrations in silence, his mind elsewhere, scarcely taking in the advice both men were eager to offer him, since, as he was all too well aware, his opponent was a recent arrival at Cascades and no better known to them than to himself.

“He’s mean, Michael,” Wittington

volunteered, “from what I’ve heard. Lie down on the table and let Jemmy and me give William Stuart Long

you a rubdown, why don’t you? There’s time enough-they ain’t through taking the wagers yet.”

Michael obediently hoisted himself onto the scrubbed wooden table and, lying full length, forced himself to relax, as George Wittington started to knead the scarred flesh of his back and shoulders, exclaiming as he did so. “Lord, man, how many times have you been flogged? There’s hardly an inch o’

skin that ain’t puckered up, right across your back!”

Michael glanced at Jemmy, who, unbidden, was pummeling the muscles of his legs, and ignored the question.

“What odds are they giving, George?” he asked.

The young overseer laughed. “Last I heard it was three to one on Train an’ five to one on you. They ain’t sure, see-Train’s only bin here a week. No one knows if he’s got guts. But like I told you, Michael, he’s mean. His gang don’t like him-they reckon he’s a surly devil, and he don’t pull his weight in the yard.

But Mr. Delaney fancies his chances. Put a mint on him, according to one of the clerks.”

So Delaney would be best pleased were he to lose, Michael thought, but-devil take Delaney! This would be his last fight, God willing; provided he was not too badly knocked about by Train, he would make his bid for freedom within the next forty-eight hours. If he succeeded,

Superintendent Delaney would have to look elsewhere for his blasted gladiator, and if he failed comwell, as far as he could foresee the future, he would be dead and Delaney’s reaction of no further interest to him. But at least tonight he would have the chance to lose the superintendent his stake and write his name-the name that was not his-in the inglorious annals of Port Arthur’s history.

“Train’s gone out there,” Jemmy warned, interpreting the shouts and catcalls from the square.

“Yeah, he’s there.” He crossed to the barred window and peered through it, giving a running commentary on the challenger’s movements and his appearance. “Looks good stripped, Michael-big chest on “im, an”

not an ounce o’ fat. But “e ain’t handling his leg-irons too good, by Gawd ‘e ain’t! I see ‘e’s got that bastard Haines in ‘is corner, talkin” nineteen to the dozen, but Train ain’t listenin’. Lookin’ about, “e is, wonderin” where you’ve got to!” He grinned. “You ready to go out?”

“Let him wonder,” Michael retorted. “And let him sweat for a little. I’ll go out when I’m ready. Put some more grease on my waist-chain, will you, Jem? And, here-give me some to rub round those infernal leg-irons.”

Movement was easier with the fetters greased, and Jemmy, still grinning, did as he had asked.

“Better go now, Michael,” young Wittington advised. “The superintendent’s moved over to his seat, and Lieutenant Murless has just come over, with that new young ensign-what’s his name?”

“Bernard,” Michael supplied. “Horace Bernard.” He swung himself lightly from the table, flexing the muscles of his arms and shoulders.

It had been Ensign Horace Bernard, he recalled with grim amusement, who had first led him to hope that his escape attempt might succeed.

Bernard was—or rather had been, until a few short weeks ago-the proud possessor of a six-chambered Adams handgun, a beautiful, handmade weapon that had probably been a gift from indulgent parents, for such pistols were both expensive and hard to come by. The young officer, lacking military experience and ignorant of the ways of convicted felons, had left the Adams on a table in his quarters, in full view from the window, and … Michael’s lips curved into a wry little smile, as he remembered the impulse that had led him to purloin it and the ease with which he had managed to do so. The Adams was hidden now, in the lumberyard, and Ensign Bernard, evidently fearing a dressing down from his superiors if he reported its loss, had made no mention of it to anyone.

With such a weapon, Michael reflected, the watchdogs on Eaglehawk Neck would present less of an obstacle; and the sentries, however alert they might be, would not expect that a convict absconder was likely to be armed. They-

“Come on, Michael,” George Wittington urged. “The superintendent’s getting impatient.”

He gripped Michael’s arm. “Go in and show “em what’s what, eh? You can do it!”

Michael shrugged in answer. He led the way to the lamplit ring, making no acknowledgment of the roars that greeted his appearance and, without even glancing at his opponent, seated himself on his stool, his two seconds ranged behind him.

William Stuart Long

The hubbub instantly subsided when Superintendent Delaney rose ponderously to his feet, his hand raised for silence. Stout and red-faced, with a heavy black beard, he was perspiring freely in his thick blue serge uniform and stiffly starched white collar, and he paused to mop his face before making the anticipated announcement.

“This will be a contest over twenty rounds between Michael Wexford in the red corner and Tobias Train in the blue. Three-minute rounds, with one minute between each round, and no punching after the bell has sounded. The winner to be decided by a knockout or when his seconds throw in the towel. All right, men … shake hands and then stand to your marks.

Commence fighting at the bell.”

The first two rounds were fought with caution, each man taking the measure of the other. Train had been warned of the dangers of fighting in leg-irons, Michael concluded, since he made no attempt to indulge in any of the fancy footwork Jem Roberts had expected he might try. He stood to his mark, guarding his face and chest with muscular forearms and occasionally essaying a jab with his right. With his superior reach, he could have landed his punches more often, but he seemed unwilling to risk the relaxation of his guard or, indeed, to do much more than spar, even when, just before the bell signaled the end of the second round, Michael contrived to score with a swift left and right to the big man’s face. Train followed the same tactics in the next round, continuing to block punches while failing to respond with any aggression, and when the round ended, a bleeding lower lip and a swelling eye bore witness to Michael’s skill.

“He’s scared, Michael,” Jemmy Roberts asserted, flapping his towel vigorously as Michael returned to his corner and resumed his seat on the stool. “It don’t look to me as if he’s even tryin”. You could take him, boy, if you go in fast, before “e’s expectin” it.”

Perhaps he could, Michael thought, not entirely convinced, although Train’s hitherto vociferous supporters had gone oddly silent and their champion was slumped forward in his corner, his head between his hands.

The fellow was a trained, professional prizefighter by all accounts, but certainly, so far, he had

not exhibited any of the superiority his past experience should have conferred on him. He was taller, heavier, and presumably fitter, and his seconds would have told him that Superintendent Delaney’s money was on him, yet … Puzzled, Michael rose as the bell rang, to stand alone in the center of the ring for what seemed a long time before his opponent shuffled forward to face him.

He realized his mistake an instant later.

Train suddenly erupted like a fury, taking him momentarily off guard. The man’s hard knuckles pounded his ribs, driving him back onto his heels, temporarily off balance, and a savage right caught him low in the groin, leaving him gasping and sick with pain.

God in heaven, he thought, he could not afford to let this swine of a fellow maim him! He had been mad to allow him the chance. Ensign Bernard’s pistol would not remain safely hidden forever, and even if the weapon had eluded discovery, if he lost this fight, Delaney might well transfer him to the quarry gang or, worse still, to the road gang in Port Arthur itself, from where Eaglehawk Neck would be all but inaccessible.